


Winter

by canadianwheatpirates



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Depression, Established Relationship, F/F, Roadtrip, fleeting mentions of dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 16:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17104370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canadianwheatpirates/pseuds/canadianwheatpirates
Summary: '“We can’t fix this. It’s something she needs to come out of on her own.” She lets out a long sigh. God only knows what’s going on in Root’s head right now.'Root is depressed. Shaw and The Machine conspire to help.





	Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SloanGreyMercyDeath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SloanGreyMercyDeath/gifts).



“Mrff.” Shaw’s protest is muffled by her pillow. She reaches out blindly; her hand finds an ear, then the rest of Bear. He pants happily and headbutts her shoulder again. 

Sunlight spills in through the windows of the loft; the bedside clock backs up her guess that it’s late morning. Root is still asleep, sprawled out half on top of her. Carefully, she pulls her arm free; when Root doesn’t stir, she slides the rest of herself out from under her and rolls out of bed. Bear’s tail thumps on the wooden floor and she pats him while she thinks. Taking a shower will give Root enough time to wake up, especially if The Machine  — or Bear  —  gives her a nudge. She grabs her phone and puts in her earpiece on the way to the bathroom.

“I know you've noticed it too,” she says once she’s shut the door behind her.  

_ You’ll need to be more specific, _ replies The Machine. She’s kept Root’s voice, after everything, but Shaw has learned to spot the tiny differences between them.

“Root. She’s depressed as fuck.” She strips down and switches on the shower, climbing in before it’s had a chance to warm up; the cold always helps shock her awake.

_ Yeah. I’ve been having to guide her through basic self-care most days, which is very worrying _ . _ What piqued your concern? _

“I don’t do concern,” Shaw automatically replies. She turns the soap over and over in her hands while she figures out the right words. 

“The other night,” she finally says. “She wasn’t into it. I stopped because I wasn’t sure if she would. That’s never happened before, even when she’s really bad.” The memory makes her frown. She’d come too close to hurting Root  — in a bad, non-kinky way  — and something deep inside her twists at the thought that Root didn’t care enough to say anything.

The Machine plays a lingering minor chord, then adds,  _ Is there anything you think would help? _

“We can’t fix this. It’s something she needs to come out of on her own.” She lets out a long sigh. God only knows what’s going on in Root’s head right now. Even when she’s better, her feelings are usually buried under layers of double-meaning and misdirection; when she stops trying to communicate, she becomes even more unreadable. 

_ I know. It might be worth going out of our way to do something nice, though. A common side effect of depression is the belief that those close to you don’t care, and a display of affection might give her something to hold on to. _

“We’re about due for a vacation. Could bump that up to today, unless there’s a number that needs us?” She shuts off the shower and steps out, grabbing a towel.

_ Nothing that Lionel can’t handle.  _

She quickly dries off,  wraps the towel around herself, grabs her phone, and heads back out into the main room. Root is up and sitting at the counter, hands wrapped around a mug. Bear sits next to her, tail wagging, and she briefly pats him on the way past. A pan is heating on the stove  —  she probably has The Machine to thank for that.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So I was thinking of getting out of town for the weekend. Been a while since we’ve had some proper time off,” she says, pulling clothes out of her dresser.

“Where’d’you wanna go?” Root asks. Her spoon clinks against the mug as she stirs her coffee. 

“Upstate. Got a place that’s out of the way, good sky for stargazing.” Her voice is muffled slightly as she pulls her hoodie on. The Machine pings approvingly in her ear.

“Sounds nice,” Root says absentmindedly. 

Shaw pads over to the kitchen and busies herself cracking eggs into the pan, the scheme coming together in her head. “I’ll head out to pick up the truck after breakfast, get supplies, drop Bear off with Fusco. You alright to start packing here?” she asks, looking over her shoulder to Root.

“Yeah,” she replies, though there’s a touch of uncertainty in it.

_ I’ll help her _ , The Machine says.

 

Root sits curled up beside her, head resting against the window; every now and then she snores quietly. The radio is off at The Machine’s request to make it easier for Root to hear Her, but She’s been playing AC/DC her earpiece as a substitute. Ahead of them, the road is straight and quiet.

_ There’s a gas station in one point three miles,  _ The Machine tells her, and she hums an acknowledgement. They could use more supplies. Absentmindedly, she reaches over and places her hand over Root’s where it rests in her lap. Root turns her hand over and links their fingers together. Frozen, Shaw watches her out of the corner of her eye  — what if she wakes up?

After a moment Root snores again, and she breathes out.

_ It’s coming up on the right _ . 

“Gotcha,” she whispers, spotting it just as she replies. The whitewashed concrete bricks would stand out well from the countryside in the summer; now, though, they camouflage the gas station against the snowy landscape. TRUCK STOP is painted along the side of its awning in large, red letters, a desperate hail to any passers by.

Carefully, she untangles her hand from Root’s. She’s driven under far worse conditions than just having one hand, but it’ll still be an inconvenience when she parks.

_ Turn right _ .

“You don’t have to GPS me,” she grumbles as she pulls in to the gas station, and The Machine plays a sad chord. Her sense of humour is as bad as Root’s sometimes.

Root stirs and rubs at her eyes. “Are we there?”

“Nah, just stopping for gas.”

“Mkay.” She rests her head against the window, staring off into the frozen distance.

Shaw shoves her door open and leaps out. She stretches, savouring the opportunity. Usually on a trip like this she’d have swapped with Root by now, but it’s not like she’s going to make her drive to her own depression vacation. 

She wanders into the store while it runs; they could maybe use another bottle of water or two, and it’s that or play Candy Crush until the tank is full. It’s a little dingy, the fluorescents throwing the grime into sharp relief. The cashier glances up at her and goes back to typing on his phone. A lone security camera sits on top of a shelf, blinking slowly.

_ Eleven o’clock. _ Her hand immediately goes to her gun, but there’s nobody there; instead, she’s staring down a shelf of potato chips.

“You… want me to buy her snacks?” she asks, and The Machine pings an affirmative. It’s a decent idea, especially if she gets to steal some of them. She grabs a bag off the shelf.  _ Two o’clock _ ; a packet of biscuits.  _ Nine o’clock _ ; a bottle of off-brand cola.

“Just these,” she says as she dumps them on the counter. The cashier drops his phone and hurriedly scans them.

“Cash or credit?” he asks, voice wavering. She hands over a twenty and grabs the bag. 

“Would have been too easy to rob that place,” she mutters as she heads back to the truck.

_ What would be the point? _

“None for us. Just couldn’t help but notice.” She tugs the door open and hands the bag out to Root. “Brought you snacks.” 

Root opens the bag and smiles as Shaw climbs in. “Thanks.”

“You’ve still gotta share though.”

 

The Machine tells her that Root’s sigh is the third in ten minutes, and Shaw takes it as a prompt. “What’s up?”

“Code isn’t working,” Root grumbles.

_ She doesn’t accept help from me, _ The Machine tells Shaw, preempting her question.  _ She might if you offer though _ .

What can  _ she _ do? There’s a reason Root is the nerd. She may know enough to track a cellphone, or to get by in an undercover identity as a tech assistant, but…

… maybe there is a way she can help.

“Want me to rubber duck it for you?”

Root blinks at her. “What?”

“There was this one tech office I went undercover in where everyone had a rubber duck on their desk. When they got stuck, they’d explain the code to the duck until they figured out what was wrong,” Shaw explains. She glances across at Root. “I could be your rubber duck.”  __

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said,” Root replies, smiling slightly. She clicks around for a few seconds.

That sounds like a yes. “So what’cha working on?” 

“You how I sometimes give you a thumb drive that copies all of a target’s files? I’m updating those tools to identify text documents and scan them for phrases of interest. Sort of a preliminary sweep.”

“Sounds handy.”

“Yeah. So the first bit identifies and reads the files  — I’ve tested it, and it works.” She angles the screen so that Shaw can see it; the code is illegible from three feet away, but she nods regardless.

“Next, it reads the file and recognises words based on them having spaces between them. After that it’s all the word seeking stuff. I’ve got finding specific words down, but phrases are being a bit tricky.” Root bites her bottom lip in thought.

“Walk me through it. Doesn’t matter if you use jargon.”

Root looks at her sidelong, then nods. “So everything works up to the end of separating the lines of text. Then it has to unnest the words from those lines, and I have to set the number of words in a phrase to look for. I’ve set it up as an iterated function based on the key phrases which  — wait.  _ Of course. _ ” She starts typing frantically.

The machine plays a small fanfare, and Shaw smiles to herself.

 

The cabin only comes into view right as they arrive, obscured as it is by the forest and the darkness and the windy dirt road. She cuts the engine and they climb out in companionable silence. Root makes a beeline for the house, aiming to spend as little time in the cold as possible, while Shaw unloads the supplies from the truck. 

The inside isn’t much warmer than out, but Root has got the heater working  — thank god for gas electricity  — so it won’t say that way for long. She putters around putting things in cupboards; Root picks a book from the stash of trashy novels and stretches on the couch to read. 

Satisfied that everything is in order, she makes a start on dinner. Stew is easy, but doing it well takes attention and precision; it’s perfect for a night like this. They fall into a calm rhythm: the slice of the knife, the soft sound of a page turning. The pot simmers away on the stove, only disturbed by the occasional stir or addition of another ingredient. 

A final poke at the potatoes convinces her that it’s ready, and she ladles some into a bowl. Root puts her book down as she brings it over.

“Stargazing after?” Shaw asks, handing her the bowl. “ I’ll make stovetop hot chocolate.” 

Root makes an interested noise, which she’s prepared to take as a win. She fetches her own bowl and Root pulls her feet up on the couch so she can sit down. The Machine plays her a clip from a local weather report:  _ clear skies and getting down to 23 overnight, so make sure you stay toasty. _

 

Snow crunches under their boots as they trek up the small hill near the cabin. Shaw had originally picked it as the best nearby defensible vantage point, but it makes a good stargazing spot as well. A light pack hangs off her shoulder, holding blankets and the all-important thermos of hot chocolate.

The top of the hill is free of trees, and the sky is as clear as The Machine had said; the whole Milky Way spills out across the blackness, unaffected by light pollution. Root reaches it a couple of paces behind her, pausing by her side as she fetches out the blankets. She passes one to Root who spreads it out on the grown and lies down, gazing up at the stars. Shaw joins her a moment later, pulling a second blanket over the top of them. Her thumb rubs small circles on rough fabric where it’s pressed against Root’s waist. The layers of coats between them are bulky and uncomfortable, but there’ll be plenty of time for skin-to-skin contact later. 

_ The ISS is passing overhead in half an hour _ .

“Imagine being stuck in a tin can up there,” Shaw muses.

“Terrible. Well, unless it was with you.”

“Mmm. No Bear though.”

Root wriggles around until she can lay her head on Shaw’s chest. “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Both of you. I'm sorry I can't appreciate it more.”

“You don’t need to apologise,” Shaw replies.

She chuckles and taps the phone in Shaw’s pocket. “You said that together.”

“Good to know She has the right attitude.” She’d never actually doubt The Machine  — especially after all the help today — but it doesn’t hurt to play staunch.

Root hums in agreement, then says, “She tells me this was your idea?”

“What? I  — not exactly. It was a team effort.” There are no cameras for her to glare at out here, dammit. 

The Machine chimes laughingly at her. She quietly resolves to remove all the cameras and mics in her apartment, but that’s for another day. Right now there’s Root, and snow, and stars.

 


End file.
